


Hide the Bullet

by WorkingChemistry



Category: Batman - All Media Types, Red Hood and the Outlaws (Comics)
Genre: Alfred calls in Dick and Tim, But like only 1/4 of RHATO 25 happens..., Creating a safety plan, Depression, Dog’s grand premier, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Gen, Not related to my series, Post RHATO 25, Suicide doesn’t happen, Therapy, You can bet they won’t let Bruce be such a horrible person, i should not be the first one tagging her btw, jason returning to the family, mentions of child abuse, mentions of dog baiting, mentions of dog fighting, mentions of underage rape, self-hate, suicide warning, thoughts about self harm
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-09-20
Updated: 2019-04-21
Packaged: 2019-07-14 22:25:38
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 3
Words: 6,446
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16049807
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/WorkingChemistry/pseuds/WorkingChemistry
Summary: Jason’s lost his teammates, shot the Penguin, and lost his family. He’s got nothing left. He didn’t ask to be brought back; he was happier when he was dead. There’s only one way to fix everything.Tim and Dick disagree.





	1. Couldn’t Help Me, You Held Me

**Author's Note:**

> Hey lovelies, this isn’t something ABO related. I know, shock. I should have the next chapter of You’re Alone up next week.
> 
> This kind of happened because I got stuck in a lil bit of a dark place and I needed to... vent isn’t the right word, but I did need an outlet. I’m doing better though, so no worries. But yeah. Pay attention to the tags guys bc Jason’s not thinking healthy thoughts here and I don’t want to trigger anyone. 
> 
> Love y’all and if you’re struggling, please get help. I know it’s hard, like believe me I know, but even if bad days happen it does get better.

Spin. Cock. Click. 

Spin. Cock. Click. 

Spin. Cock. Click. 

Jason’s lost track of how many rounds of roulette he’s played. Not enough. 

Spin. Cock. Click.

Spin. Cock. Click. 

Spin. Cock. Click. 

He stares down at the hand gun blankly. He thinks he might cry if he wasn’t so numb. Surely his luck can’t  be this bad. 

“Put the gun down, Jason.” Red Robin, Timothy, sounds too close and stern. Judging Jason and finding him wanting, like everyone else in his life. 

Jason looks up to see his replacement watching him warily. Jason looks away. 

Spin. Cock. Cli—

Tim’s batarang knocks the gun out of his hand and sends it skittering across the floor. The gunshot that hits the wall makes them both flinch. Then Tim descends on him, with shouts his brain can’t process. Slender fingers cup his cheeks and force him to look his repla—brother in the eye. The kid’s voice is wet and quivering. “What are you doing?” 

“I’m tired, Tim.” A little guilt pierces through the fog, but not that much. It’s his life, why can’t he end it if he wants?

“Then you take a nap.” Tim might be screaming, Jason might be crying. Nothing really makes sense, except that he was so close to just being done. “You’ve already had a second chance, no one can promise you a third one.”

“Don’t want a third one, didn’t want this one.” Jason pulls his head back to thunk it against the wall and stare up at the ceiling. “I was ready to go, at the end. It wasn’t a bad death.”

“You can’t die, we— I just got you back.” Tim grabs him and hugs him tight. The pressure from the hold almost matches the one in his chest. His head drops to Tim’s shoulder and he just lets it rest there, breathing in the sweat and leather. Tim’s rocking with him, it’s almost nice. He feels Tim shift him slightly to answer a comm. “Yeah, I found him. Absolutely not. Keep B far away.” Tim, analytical and unflappable Tim, sounds like he’s crying. “He’s... he’s not good, N. I’m going to take him back to my place. I don’t know why and I’m not asking right now. I’ll... I’ll keep you updated.”

For a minute they sit in almost silence before Tim jostles him slightly. “Hey, think you can make it to my place?”

“No.” Even just that syllable feels like too much. Biz and Artemis are gone, Kori’s gone, Roy’s... he’s so alone. He doesn’t even have his family because he can’t keep a grip on his anger. He clings tighter to Tim like that can stop him from leaving. 

“I need you to be able to make it.” Tim stands, heaving Jason’s deadweight awkwardly. “Come on, Jason. You’re a fighter, I need you to fight.”

“He’s gonna kill me.” Jason stands and sways back a few steps so he can feel the wall. His fingers claw at the bat on his chest, tearing it. “I can’t... I can’t... not him. I can’t fight him, Tim.”

“Bruce isn’t going to touch you.” Tim takes Jason’s hands and holds them to his own chest. The boy is crying. Jason’s made him cry. “I won’t let him near you. I promise. That’s why we need to go to my place. I can’t lock this up as well. Please, Jason. Just a little more.”

He’s too tired, but Tim sounds scared so he nods. He doesn’t want Tim to be scared, not of him, not anymore. 

“That’s, that’s good. Thank you.” Tim slips under Jason’s arm, even though he’s not hurt that badly. Jason accepts the support anyway. They shuffle down the stairs, answering the question of whether or not they’re going by grapple. Falling from the top of a skyscraper isn’t the way he’d choose to go, but Jason didn’t get to be picky the first time around he doesn’t really expect a lot of options the second time.

 “We’re gonna get you help. You’ll be okay. It’s gonna be okay.” Tim promises over and over again, like that will convince Jason it’s true as he leads Jason to his car. Jason’s heart sinks again as he realizes throwing himself off the back of a motorcycle isn’t an option either. He shakes when Tim buckles him in and turns on the child safety locks so Jason can’t get out while they’re driving. 

Growling, he slams his head forward against the dashboard and lets it sit there. How pathetic can he be? His little brother has to turn the child safety locks on for him. 

Tim’s hand slips into his, trembling and small. The promises don’t let up once during the drive.  Entering the building is another struggle for Jason, but he makes it. He makes it all the way to  the bedroom where Tim pushes him to sit gently. Then the teen crouches in front of him. “Do you think you can take a bath for me?”

Jason shakes his head, swiping at his eyes. Why is he crying so much? He’s not sad, he’s tired. “I can’t. I’m sorry.”

“No. No. Don’t be sorry.” Tim insists again, tugging at the laces on Jason’s boots. “Don’t be sorry for that. I’m going to help you get comfortable and tuck you in, okay?”

Jason wants to tell him not to bother, Jason shouldn’t be comfortable after everything he’s done, but he can’t so he just nods again. Tim beams like he’d just promised to never kill. It warms the cold knot in his chest, but twists his gut with guilt. He’s already caused so much trouble, he doesn’t argue when Tim strips him down to his tank top and cargos. Like a doll, he lets Tim manipulate him into the bed. The down comforter is soft and warm against his rough skin. 

Tim presses a kiss to his temple and holds his hand again. “Try to get some sleep, I’m going to stay right here.”

————

He wakes to Tim and Bruce screaming in the living room. 

“He was trying to blow a hole in his own skull.”

“He nearly killed a man.”

“Don’t you dare tell me that Cobblepot is worth more to you than Jason. Don’t you dare.”

“I can’t let him kill.”

“Hey...” Dick’s voice is soft, like Jason might break, but it distracts him from the shouting match in the other room. 

He turns his head to glance at his older brother, wincing internally at the dark circles that look like bruising under the older’s man’s eyes.

 He takes in a breath, hating how rough he sounds. “Hey.”

“What happened?” Dick brushes the white streak of curls out of Jason’s face gently. “Everything seemed okay, you were doing better, and then...”

And then he’d shot Penguin. 

Jason’s stomach roils and Dick just barely manages to pass him a small trash can in time to catch his vomit. He doesn’t know what’s wrong with him, just that he doesn’t want to be here. He wishes Tim had been a few seconds later and then feels guilty because he doesn’t want the teen to have been the one to have found him after. He doesn’t really want anyone to have found him.

“Shh, little wing.” Dick sits on the edge of the bed and rubs his back. “You’ve got everyone worried about you.”

“There’s no excuse for murder.” Bruce bellows from the other room.

Jason flinches and hangs his head. “B sounds real worried.”

“Don’t act like you don’t know punching and yelling is how Bruce worries.” Dick sounds like he’s trying for cheerful, but just sounds pained. 

There’s the slamming of doors, a muffled scream, and then Tim enters the room hesitantly. “Everyone okay in here?”

“We’re good, Timmy. Aren’t we Jay-Jay?”

Jason just grunts, unable to summon up the energy for more than that. He feels like crap, and the numbness is starting to fade away just in time for panic to take its place. Dick drapes his body across Jason’s back, moving the trash can to the floor, out of the way. Jason feels soft lips on the back of his neck. “It’s gonna be okay, little wing. We’re here and you are so loved. So loved. Don’t ever forget that.”

Jason tries to scoff, but he wants to believe it so badly. Hating himself for it, he leans into Dick’s comfort. When Tim tentatively places a hand on his back, he shudders and relaxes just a hair under the touch. 

“You’re a miracle, Jason.” Tim croons in his ear. “And we’re so so blessed that you’re alive. We need you. Even the demon is worried about you.”

“Here, come lay down.” Dick sits up and scootches to the back wall and tugs Jason until they’re laying down pressed up against each other. Tim kicks off the last of his gear and crawls into bed as well, bracketing Jason in. 

“Get some sleep, little wing. We got you and we’re not leaving your side. Alfred and Damian will be here in the morning and we’ll figure something out. You’re gonna be okay.”

He really doesn’t want to, but he lets Dick and Tim coax him down. He knows in the morning they’ll want to lock him up somewhere, he’s proven to be a danger to himself and others, but he doesn’t want to give this up. Nearly asleep, he murmurs, “No Arkham. I can’t. The laughing... I can’t do it again.”

They stiffen on either side, and he thinks Dick is crying now. “No Arkham, I promise. You’re safe with us.”

Jason hums quietly in response, wrapping his arms around Tim and nuzzling close. He still really wants to die, but having Tim in his arms eases some of that pain. Having Dick Grayson wrap around him like an octopus soothes away a little more. 

He’s not quite able to sleep that night, but it’s okay. His brothers didn’t lie. They don’t leave his side once, not even to let Alfred in. Damian has to pick the lock and disable the security. 

Alfred gives him a gentle, but stern, lecture on shutting the family out before going to heat up some soup. 

“That was foolish Todd.” Damian chides, face squished against Jason’s shoulder as he tries to meld his body with Jason’s in a hug. 

Despite the extra weight on his chest he breathes easier, surrounded by family, than he has for a long time.


	2. The Shadows Began to Fade

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Jason goes to therapy. He’s not better, but he’s going to get there.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So, I mentioned on Tumblr, but my Grandma is dying and as a result I’ve just kind of lost all will to write. This is sort of a vent fic for that and some other stuff going in my life. This ends hopeful though bc I need some hope in my life rn. 
> 
> Also, Dick sits in with Jason during therapy. You should always check with your therapist before bringing someone to a session, but it should be allowed. In this case, their plan is for Dick to accompany Jason until he’s comfortable being left on his own. Right now Jason is super anxious and he’s honestly having a rough time and wants someone he knows to be /safe/ with him. 
> 
> Again. Major trigger warnings for suicide, self hatred, and self harm. Please don’t read if it’s going to hurt you. In this fic Jason works with a therapist to create a safety plan and I’m going to link to the blank pdf I found to use. Please please please use it if you need to. I’ve been struggling with depression for the past nine years and anxiety for the past fourteen or so, I know everything seems hopeless but if we keep chugging along things will get better eventually. Love you darlings.

[Safety plan template](https://www.sprc.org/resources-programs/patient-safety-plan-template)

 

* * *

 Jason stares blankly at the therapist across from him. Super hero therapy. Who would have thought? Apparently more and more mental health professionals are specializing in heroes. Dick says they’re all vetted.

The ‘professionals’ at Arkham are all vetted too.

Charris stares back evenly, curly blond hair that reminds him too much of Catherine’s. She’s kind, but she’s not overly smiley as she taps her clipboard with a pen thoughtfully. “Before I call your brother back in, I just want to make sure you’re comfortable with him being here.”

Jason wants to let his head fall back against the couch, shut his eyes, and just let the numbness take hold. He can’t though. Sure Dick _says_  Charris is safe, but at one point both Harley and Crane were both considered safe so forgive him if he’s wary. As much as he hates it, he does feel marginally safer with Dick in the room.

He sucks in his bottom lip, staring at the clock just behind her. It’s easier than looking at her. He wants to snarl at her for daring to believe that he’s some victim of domestic abuse. He wants to claw another gash in his arm for believing he’d ever be more than that. His index finger scratches at his pant leg to soothe the urge. It’s troublingly difficult to keep his voice even without snapping at her. “I would really _really_  appreciate it if Dick was in here.”

She nods, standing to let Dick in without another word.

Dick rushes in, immediately plastering himself to Jason’s side. Jason relaxes and lets himself fall against Dick; lets his big brother protect him from everything else. Soft words of reassurance are whispered into his hair. “You’re okay, Jay. I’ve got you. We’re here for an hour and then back to Tim, alright? Just an hour.”

Just an hour, Jason promises himself. This isn’t Arkham and Dick’s not leaving him.

”Can you tell me why you’re here, Jason?” Charris says.

Jason swallows, feels Dick freeze next to him. “I tried to shoot myself.”

If she’s judging him, her expression doesn’t reveal it. She just writes something down and looks back up. “Is that the first time you’ve wanted to harm yourself?”

“No. I, uh...” Jason shuffles a little. “No.”

“Do you want to hurt yourself right now?” She asks.

“Not... like...” he swallows hard, wants to run. “Not like that.”

Dick doesn’t make a pained noise, but Jason can tell he wants to. Instead his brother squeezes his hand reassuringly. It’s a promise that he’s still there, that he’s not leaving. Jason latches onto it.

“I think one of the first things we should do is come up with a safety plan.” She pulls a form from her clipboard and slides it across the wooden coffee table to him along with a pen. “It’s made up of six steps so that we can help you identify your feelings and get help before they get overwhelming. “For the first step can you write down three warning signs that you might try to harm yourself again.”

Jason takes the pen and briefly entertains the idea of stabbing into his thigh or her throat. His leg won’t stop bouncing, rocking the table slightly with his need to escape.

One hour. Dick promised. Just one hour.

Sucking in another breath, he considers what to write. 

  1. The Joker escaping/ can’t escape people talking about him.




The words are shaky, but he manages them. It shouldn’t feel like such an accomplishment to acknowledge that the Joker bothers him, and yet it does. For all that he’s always demanded the Joker’s death, it’s always been on the premise of protecting other people.

That’s because no one wants to protect you.

The voice in his head isn’t venomous, isn’t dripping with malice. It’s the same one that reminds him he needs to do laundry when he gets home or Alfred will do it. That’s what makes it scary, it’s just another thought.

Dick’s here though and he wants to protect him. Dick’s already killed the Joker for him once. Dick won’t let him be taken again. 

  1. I stop eating. 




Securing food has, for as he can remember, been of the utmost importance to Jason. They didn’t always have much at home. He can’t count the number of times they ate nothing but oatmeal, beans, and rice until Willis showed back up with enough money to get some ramen, hot dogs, mac an’ cheese, or—if they were lucky—pizza.

He learned young to eat regardless of whether or not he was hungry. Even if he wasn’t hungry then, he knew he would be later. It’s a habit he’s never fully kicked, and yet anymore it seems like he can’t even choke down a granola bar. 

  1. Screwing up.




 He shoves the paper back at her for her approval, stomach churning.

She hums as she reads, tilting her head at the last one. “What do you mean by screwing up?”

“Just... messing up. Doing something wrong.”

“Define ‘wrong’? Something someone else has told you, or something you decide?” She’s still not frowning and that’s making him twitchy.

Still, it startles a bark of bitter laughter out of him. “I don’t need someone to tell me I’m a screw up.”

“Jason...” Dick breathes; gives Jason’s hand another squeeze. “You’re not a screw up.”

“Dick is right. Hopefully we can get you to see that as well.”  Charis slides the paper back over. “Next we need you to come up with three things you can do to distract yourself without other people.”

That’s not so hard at least...

  1. Read

  2. Run laps




He can’t think of a third. Usually he goes out on patrol, but since he’s still on suicide watch, that’s a definite no. Even if he wasn’t, he knows that patrol offers too many opportunities to end things. Right now, that sounds like a good thing, but he can’t stand the thought of upsetting his brothers more than he already has.

Before he can sink too deep into the pit of self hatred for hurting the others, Dick offers, “What about that show Tim’s always talking about? The one with the cops. Maybe you can watch that?”

Jason takes a minute to consider it before scratching that down as well.

“Excellent.” She encourages. “Now I need you to write down three people and their contact information that you can talk to if you start to feel bad.”

That one _is_ easy. He scribbles down Alfred’s, Tim’s, and Dick’s information without hesitation.

“The last thing I need you to do is to write down as many reasons to stay alive that you can think of.”

Jason stares down at the paper blankly. It takes him too long, he knows that it takes him too long, but he finally writes out

  1. I don’t want to hurt my family.




Dick gives his hand another squeeze. The second one comes a little faster. 

  1. Outlive Joker through pure spite.




 That gets him a soft laugh from his brother and a raised eyebrow from Charris. He doesn’t know how much she knows of his... relationship to Joker, but even most civilians know there’s bad blood between them.

A lot of it Jason’s blood.

“Can you think of one more?” She asks instead of commenting on the Joker. Dick said they wouldn’t be talking about anything too traumatic during the first sessions. He’s incredibly grateful, because he doesn’t think he could handle trying to talk about his first death right now.

Jason tries to find another, but has to shake his head in the end. He doesn’t have friends to live for anymore, he’s no good at saving anyone. There’s nothing else for him.

Charris seems to consider her next words carefully. “Can you tell me something that used to make you happy, something you loved doing but you don’t anymore?”

The barely audible tick of the clock is the only noise for a while while Jason tries to dig through his memories to find one. “I... I used to like helping Alfie cook.”

“Alfie?” She asks.

“Alfred. He’s our—“ Jason hesistates half a second, fiddling with his fingernails. The carpet beneath him is a particularly ugly shade of beige. It looks soft, he wonders if it is.  “He’s our grandpa.”

“I know you’re not allowed in the kitchen right now, but perhaps cooking with your Grandfather could be something to look forward to?”  She offers lightly.

“Oh.” The idea that he could ever get that back never occurred to him. Somewhere along the way he’d gained the idea that Alfred would never accept his help. “If-if he wants to cook with me.”

“He would love it, Jay.” Dick reassures, so Jason writes it down.

He starts to slide the sheet of paper over to Charris again, but she shakes her head. “I want you to keep that with you at all times. If you ever catch yourself starting to think about hurting yourself I want you to pull it out and try something on the list, okay? Can you do that this week?”

“I... yeah.” Jason nods, staring down at the paper because it’s easier than looking at her. “Yeah I can.”

“Excellent. Our time is nearly up. Is there anything else you want to address before you leave?”

“No.” He links his fingers together, squeezing so tightly his knuckles whiten.

“Alright then.” She holds out her hand for him to shake and he does so quickly. “I’ll see you next week. Your paper has emergency hotlines that you can contact if you find yourself seriously thinking about hurting yourself again and need them before we meet. You’re going to be okay, Jason.”

“Thanks.” He mumbles, ducking his head and rushes to the car. Dick is a few moments behind so he can say his own goodbyes, but soon his older brother is in the driver seat and they’re leaving the parking lot.

“You did so good, Little Wing.” Dick praises gently, giving Jason’s leg a pat. “She’s right. You’re going to be okay and I’m so _so_ proud of you for sticking it out even though it was hard.”

“Yeah, yeah, yeah.” He growls, trying to keep his voice from quavering. “Where’s the book I was promised.”

Dick’s laughter eases something in his chest. Pretending to pout he slips one hand into his pocket to feel the paper in his pocket, solid and unchanging.

Dick promised.

He’s going to be okay. 


	3. Made Up of Fear and Self-Hate

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Real talk. Last night was a bad night.
> 
> We went to my paternal grandpa’s house yesterday and as much as I loved getting to see him again, it was bittersweet because I was forced to confront the fact that it’s been another year since my paternal grandmother passed, that she didn’t get to see me graduate high school, she’s never going to see me graduate or get married, or have children, or all those other things that we used to talk about. Today we’re going to see my maternal grandmother who’s dying and I just... I dunno. 
> 
> It hurts guys. I don’t have answers. I wish I did. I have all my younger siblings too, and my parents and I’m trying to be strong for them but yeah. It’s... it’s a struggle. These kinds of thoughts, plus all my stress about school, are why I’ve been slow at replying to comments. Just know I’ve been reading all of them and hoarding them close to my heart like the precious gold they are. 
> 
> My inspiration for this chapter came from finally being home to see my fur baby. I have my puppy (well, puppy at heart) and she gave me lots and lots of cuddles and kisses while I wrote this and cried. Trigger warnings at the bottom bc this note got unnecessarily long.

It was a good day, a good week, and then... and then... he’d blown it.

Jason can’t help that he’s so stupid.

The tension in his chest burns, but he can’t expand his cramping lungs. Small, shallow breathes are the best he can manage and if he’s being honest he’s lucky that he’s got that.

He’s not crying—for once. Thank God for small miracles.

His head throbs with compressed agony. There are too many emotions for him to understand them all, packed so tight into his chest that he feels ready to combust; white heat licking up his arms and legs. The physical pain would be a welcome relief.

For once, he’s alone. They’d started easing the suicide watch a few weeks ago, though Damian was somewhere in the apartment. Somewhere being the key word. Jason doesn’t know where he is, and Jason can’t spare the energy to find him; doesn’t know if he can spare the energy to breathe.

He loathes himself. He’s such a waste. Worthless. Nothing but a drain. How can the others tolerate him?

Willis had the right idea when he would lock the apartment doors behind Jason at night.

Jason’s nails dig into his arm, scratching lines across his bicep. If he had a knife—if he was braver... but he’s not. He’s a coward and a leech. He doesn’t have the ability to keep himself alive, so he latches onto the closest warm body to steal their resources for himself.

The scratches aren’t enough so he starts pinching a line down his thigh. He’s hoping it will bruise. He deserves it. It’s the least he deserves. He can’t even die right.

“Todd.” A british voice, still crackling with puberty, commands.

Jason sucks in a breath, tries to summon a smile and fails. Instead he curls in a little tighter around himself. Isn’t it such a joke that he turned out so massive? Two hundred pounds of nearly pure muscle and he still can’t protect himself.

“Todd.” The voice cuts through his thoughts again, sharp as a stilleto knife between his ribs. This time Jason at least manages to drag his gaze up to meet Damian’s placid stare. “I require transportation.”

“I, I,  I,” Jason’s words stutter and stop.

Damian waits, calm and tranquil. He doesn’t try to comfort like Dick, or coax like Tim. Unlike the others, Damian treats this like he would any other injury. He’s matter of fact about the allowances needed, and patient to a fault.

“Iiiii—“ The syllable drags out against his will as Jason shuts his eyes and tips his head back against the wall. Cold sweat, clammy and muculent, drips down his trembling muscles. He works his jaw before finally managing. “Sh— shouldn’t be... I shouldn’t be, I shouldn’t be behind a wheel.”

“Very well. ” Damian nods once, a job well done,  and sits beside Jason with just enough distance to feel like the contact isn’t being forced on him.  “When you catch your breath, we will walk. It is not far.”

He doesn’t say more, just sits beside Jason and breathes. It’s shameful that Jason can’t breathe on his own, but he latches onto his younger brothers rhythm and lets his diaphragm fill and contract to the same timing.  It still hurts, sharp needles stabbing into his ribs in warning when he tries to breathe too deep, but at least he’s breathing.

Waste of oxygen.

He snaps the hair band on his wrist, calm enough now to remember it. “Shut up, Willis.”

It was Damian’s idea, giving his negative thoughts a name, so he doesn’t startle. Instead he gazes thoughtfully at the ceiling and hums quietly, a few bars of a soft lullaby Jason thinks he might remember from the haze that surrounded his earliest days with the league. Damian confided to Jason, while taking his ‘turn’—Dick or Tim always lingering nearby—on suicide watch, that he’d named his own internal perfectionist demands Ra’s.

The hairband was a gift from Tim who said he used one of his own to help curb anxiety.

Charris had given her approval, with a few caveats. It shouldn’t be there to cause pain, she’d warned, just to startle unwanted thoughts away. It’s also not meant to be a permanent solution, just something temporary to help relieve symptoms until they can address and heal whatever’s at the root of such thoughts. She’d suggested drawing on his arm as the next step towards weaning off the hair tie when he was ready.

When Jason can finally breathe freely and his muscles sag, Damian begins speaking again. “The shelter called this morning.”

“Yeah?” Jason’s throat is raw from unvoiced screams.  He still feels that low guilt throbbing in his core, the quiet insistence that he go dig up one of Dick’s escrima and use them to stop his heart, but it’s easier to ignore when Damian is demanding his attention.

“Yes. They have raided another hoarder.” Damian tucks himself against Jason’s side insistently, but with a delicateness that promises to move quickly if Jason needs it. “They required suggestions for foster families.”

Instead of pushing him away, Jason pulls Damian closer to himself. Though sometimes memories prickle along his skin and rub him raw, most of the time Jason craves the soft touches of his brothers. He seizes each offer with a rabid intensity, tucking them away so that late at night he can turn them over and over with the religious fervor of Sméagol and his Precious. Damian is stocky, a solid block of muscle that stays relaxed in Jason’s hold.

Positioned as they are, Jason can count at least four ways of killing Damian before the boy can react. He knows Damian can count them too, but he behaves as though the idea beneath his acknowledgment. It does more to melt the ice hot blade of guilt lodged in Jason’s temple than Dick’s soft reassurances sometimes.

He noses at Damian’s silky hair, breathing past the fragrance of hair wax to find the scent of child beneath. “Did you have alotta names for them?”

“Not enough.” It’s amazing how nearly perfect Damian’s British accent is, better than Bruce’s and the man was raised by Alfred. “That is the purpose of our outing. They found several dead females who were lactating. Most of their pups have been reassigned to foster dams, or taken in by volunteers, but there is one...”

Damian trails off, trembling slightly. It’s rare to have so visible a clue to Damian’s uncertainty, but he doesn’t comment on it. “They asked if we would consider taking her until she can be weaned. I informed them my family seems to be adept at taking in strays. They will be awaiting us with supplies.”

“Yeah. Yeah, alright.” If they were being honest, Jason still didn’t feel capable of leaving the apartment. Still... he wouldn’t be able to forgive himself if his issues hurt the pup in question. Slowly, far more gingerly than he has any right to move, Jason gets to his feet.

The walk is excruciating. Tim, despite his own inherited millions, decided to get an apartment on the corner of Crime Alley. All around him Jason can taste the salty iron desperation of memories best forgotten.

Two feet ahead and to his right is the apartment where Jason would hide out on the fire escape until Willis’s buddies were gone. That apartment on the left is the one where EMTs revived him after he tried some of Catherine’s “medicine”. They’d nearly had to revive her too after Willis beat her unconscious for sharing with their six year old son. It was one of the few good memories he had of his dad, if he was going to be honest. The massive thug had curled around him protectively, holding him still with gentle strength as he’d convulsed.

It’s not until Damian tugs his hand gently, downward in a bid for attention rather than a demand to continue moving, that he realizes he’s come to a standstill. Swallowing hard, Jason points out the cracked window on the seventh floor. “Willis saved my life there. Some—sometimes I wonder if he was really worse than Catherine or if I was just too young to understand the difference between love and need. Cath—mom— she was so... She needed me. I— she needed me.”

Damian nods like he understands. Maybe he does. His parents are Bruce and Talia after all.

“Willis was hard, and demanding. Sure he smacked me around, but he didn’t put me in danger.” Jason wants to pull out chunks of hair, so he snaps the hair band instead. “He—he would hide me away if his buddies came around, beat one guy until his eye popped out because he said something about pretty freckles. I knew he’d protect me if it came down to it. Mama, Mama, she tried to—“

Jason’s throat closes because there are some things you shouldn’t say to your little brother, even if that brother’s upbringing was controlled by a sociopathic lord of assassins. One of those things is that your mother tried to trade your virginity to her dealer when she couldn’t pay up one night.

“They did not deserve you.” Damian speaks quietly in Arabic, stating each word as though it’s fact. “You were a gift that they lost. We know to cherish you.”

Then he tugs Jason along the slick sidewalk without another word.

The shelter is just another crumbling buildings among a swath of crumbling buildings, but the homey feel inside is relaxing. It’s a repurposed townhome that they never had the money or will to make clinical.

The receptionist there, Ying Yue, knows them by sight thanks to Damian’s dedicated volunteer work. She has a tiny bundle cradled in the crook of her arm as she approaches, not waiting for them to draw near. “Thank you so much for coming.”

“We are honored to be considered.” Damian nods, puffing up with adolescent pride despite his stiff formality. He angles to indicate Jason. “You remember Jason?”

“Yes. The brother back from the dead.” She teases, gently offering the bundle to Jason. “Perhaps your good luck can be shared with her. As I told your brother, the house belonged to a hoarder in name only. She was used as bait and while the vet has patched her back together, we can’t get a dam to take her. The last one nearly tore her apart again.”

Jason stopped paying more than minimal attention to Ying Yue the second he was passed the soft blanket. The blue brindle pit bull pup inside lay listless. She barely flicks Jason a mournful look, seemingly resigned to any pain he might offer. He pulls down a corner of the blanket to find her more bandages than puppy.

Something deep inside him aches and he cradles her closer with a low croon. Despite knowing he was set up, he can’t find it in him to be angry at Damian. It was well meant after all.

It’s not until Ying Yue touches his arm lightly and he starts that he realizes that he dozed off, curled up around the puppy in a corner of the waiting room. When he stands, the puppy cautiously wriggles closer. It hurts that he can sympathize, remembers doing the same cautious wriggle onto bed when he wasn’t sure if the drugs his mom had taken were the good kind or if she was on a bad trip.

Jason doesn’t know who he should kill for causing this pain, but he hopes they’ve long fled Gotham. He’s come to terms... well, he’s reluctantly considering the idea that being Gotham’s executioner is less than healthy for him. He’s toying with the idea that maybe he deserves to be healthy. He’s willing to throw that all away if he can deal back a quarter of what his newest charge has had torn into her.

Damian carries the supplies and refuses to trade Jason as they begin the short walk back. “I must, unfortunately, return to school throughout the week at Grayson’s insistence. It would be best if she has one caretaker. Necessity being what it is, that role must fall to you.”

“I suppose.” Jason tries to play at reluctant. He fails miserably.

When they return back to the apartment, Damian demonstrates how to mix her formula and how to feed her. They then set up her little puppy box with its soft padding and warm heating pad in the back corner of Jason’s king bed. It stays tucked far enough out of the way that Jason won’t have to fear crushing her, but she’s kept close by.

Then, after showing Jason how to help her eliminate, Damian leaves them alone.

It’s a few hours later, Jason’s not sure how many, that Dick’s knock comes at his door. Jason startles slightly out of the meditative trance he’d found himself in. It was difficult to remain on high alert with a sleeping baby cradled against his chest, and he hadn’t been sleeping well the past few days.

Dick slides onto the bed beside him, draping himself over Jason’s side like an insistent lichen. “Dami told me you had a bad day.”

A bit heavy handed to be gentle, but there’s no pressure to respond. Dick doesn’t force him to curl up into the warmth that waits in his brother’s hug. Jason is free to retreat if he needed, but for once he doesn’t want to.

“Yeah. I picked up one of Willis’ favorites from the library without realizing. Didn’t recognize it ‘til I came across his favorite passage and then it was like he was right there. I, I...” Jason gives a pained wheeze, snuggling his puppy closer. “I don’t understand how he could be so good one day and then knock my tooth out the next. I don’t understand how come I’m not terrified of Mama even though she sold me.”

Jason’s breath hitches again, but this time it’s just sorrow instead of that toxic mix of regret, despair, anger, pain, and love. It’s mourning for the kid in second grade who’d been too pretty when his mom was too deep in withdrawal to see straight. “She sold me. Willis was mean, but he killed the m—man and she’s the one I miss.”

Dick cradles him close and says nothing. There’s nothing to say. Dick’s parents might have been the idealistic 1950s family, but the man Dick considered to be his uncle—a second father—had been willing to sell him to the court of owls.

There aren’t any tears. Jason’s not sure if that’s better or worse. He’ll have to ask Charris. He’s... reluctantly beginning to like her. He definitely respects her no nonsense attitude. It’s always a pleasure to see her wield it with devastating precision anytime Dick begins to push too far in her presence.

Gently he nudges free from Dick, pulling back just enough to show off his charge. “Tim’s allowed to have pets right?”

“Pretty sure Tim owns this building and the two next door, based on their marked improvements since we moved in.” Dick offers his hand to the puppy, turning one of his bright smiles onto her when she nudges it and then tucks her face against Jason for safety.

Jason would be lying if he said he doesn’t feel something akin to paternal pride at being the puppy’s choice for safety. It isn’t as though she has much of a choice in the matter, and yet her trust in him—when at barely three weeks she’s suffered enough to be the most jaded of pups—feels monumental. It... it means something.

_He_ means something.

”What’s her name?” Dick asks, looking back up at Jason again.

Out of the corner of his eye, Jason can see Damian and Tim lingering in the doorway. His face burns hot red, but he can’t help it. Hours; he’s had hours with her and her name is her name, even if it’s the dumbest thing he’s come up with in years. He ducks his head and mumbles, “Dog.”

To their credit, Dick doesn’t bust a lung laughing him out of the room. Tim doesn’t snort so hard he gets whiplash. Damian doesn’t quite roll his eyes back so far into his head that he can see China.

It’s a near thing though.

Once he’s taken a moment to compose himself, Dick cuffs the back of Jason’s head gently. “Alright, Adam. Let’s go eat supper. I brought home your favorite—take out.”

“Will your talents never end?” Jason deadpans as he follows Dick out.

Dog stays curled up in his lap throughout the meal. Every once and a while she stretches gingerly before nuzzling closer to Jason. Her quiet yips seem more content and less pained compared to when she’d first been passed to him.

And that night, he’s allowed to sleep alone for the first time since this mess started. He knows all of his brothers will be in to check on him at various points in the night, but he can’t bring himself to care too much. It’s hard to be upset when he lets his hand slip into Dog’s bed and instead of shifting away, she toddles closer and curls up with her back against his arm.

If he can’t get better for his own sake, if he can’t bring himself to believe that his siblings really are better off with him in their life than they would be if he was gone, maybe—just maybe—he can convince himself to get better for her sake. Watching her yawn, he finds that for once the idea of surviving another decade doesn’t sound that bad at all. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Tw for child abuse, rape, self harm, self hatred, mentions of dog fighting/dog baiting. 
> 
> I tried to make it more hopeful than not, and I’ve been aiming with this fic to show the brutal, ugly reality of mental illness and trauma in a way that reads as cathartic rather than glorifying, but I do not have all the same triggers and traumas that Jason has (though I do have several that are similar) so I can’t guarantee accuracy. I also am not shying away from showing just how nasty self loathing can be so... please don’t read if you’re worried it’ll trigger you. I would rather you be safe. This is my method of coping with the pain in my life and I’m putting it up here in the hopes that it will help heal someone else. 
> 
> Much much love, babe. I hope you’re doing okay. Just know that it’s gonna get better. It’s gonna. We just gotta hold out until then.  
> (ɔˆ ³(ˆ⌣ˆc)

**Author's Note:**

> Title from Reasons Not To Die by Ryn Weaver. This song is amazing, but it’s also a frank discussion of suicide and depression.


End file.
